Carnival of the Incurables

My name is Jack Hayward and I was the curator of the Carnival of the Incurables. There was a lot of interest in our enterprise and me be very clear, once you have entered the carnival, there is no escape from this rather unusual show.  We are proud of who we were.  We were proud of what we managed to do, because let’s face it, our kind is not normally accepted among the general population.  It’s alright with us, because we have earned a special place in our own society than the one that rejected us.  

There is a hopelessness when a doctor looks you over and declares you incurable.  I’d rather receive a death sentence for the crimes I did rather than what I went through now going on twenty years.  Just a lad of sixteen when the doctor said I was incurable due to some of the dark thoughts and delusions I was haunted by.  I was so naïve to believe that he was there to help me.  

So, after my sentence, I was sent off to Kraigenhaven.  As it turned out, this hospital is isolated on the Scottish shore where all you can hear is the screeching of the seagulls or the screaming of the incurables.  Sometimes when you are having dilutions, they shackle you to the wall where you can scream your guts out.  In the morning they bring in a hose and soap to wash you down since you defecated and most likely, vomited on yourself while you were in the shackles.

When we were in our right mind, they would take us to Aberdeen, a pretty good size town where there are open markets and you can buy just about anything, even stuff that’s breathing at the time. But of all the things I favored the most it was when the carnival came to town.  It was like a holiday.  They had fireworks and lots of animals from the four corners of the world.  And then there were the freaks, men and women who had not been favored by God, just like us.  Since we were the incurables.  We had been told a demon lives inside us that made us incurable.  Some of the freaks were  just like us.  I met Karl from Austria who could have someone pound in three quarter inch nails into his feet, because he did not have any nerves there according to his biography.  

I took Karl out for a pint at the pub.

“I would give anything to be normal.” He once told me in German as Olga the bearded lady translated.  Olga did not drink, so I bought her some tea.  This all happened before the Great War, but Karl was alright for a Bochy.

“All this nationalism is crap.” He waved it off, “Being a Tommie or Bochy...ain’t much difference when you get down to it.”

“I ain’t no Tommie.” I told him, “I am an incurable.” 

“Yes and I’m a freak.” He sighed deeply as Olga translated, “But they want us to believe that we Germans are superior.  If I was superior, I would not be some freak in a freak show.” 

When the war started, I never saw Karl or Olga again and that makes me angry at times.

“You are an idiot.” Jerry says.  Jerry always comes when I am feeling blue and he never makes me feel any better, but he won’t leave me alone.  Sometimes he gets me so angry, I start screaming.  Once I start screaming, the orderlies will shackle me.  I scream until I fall asleep.  I was told that Dr. Kranz will recommend a lobotomy if you scream enough.  But we don’t have to worry about Dr. Kranz anymore or the orderlies.  They were all brutes.  I think that was part of the requirement for employment.  I’ve seen them beat a couple of the incurables to death.  So when their time came, we had no mercy.

Dr. Goodwill was the doctor who would talk to me.  He was a good man from what I could tell.  He kept a photograph of his wife and he when they were on holiday.  

“Has Jerry been bothering you?” He would ask in a gentle voice.  I would sit there all twisted up with my hands over my head and face remembering being tormented by him. “He has, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah.” I would manage to say.

“We must tell him that he is not welcome to visit us.” He would write something down on his pad. “It is your ego that wants to take control.” 

“Yeah.” I would say again. 

Silence.

“I want to go to the carnival.” I would break the silence.

“Carnival isn’t coming for two more months.  They come in the spring and it is still winter.” He would tilt his head.

“Maybe they will come early?” I suggested.

“You know they can’t do that.” He chuckled.

“Could we have our own carnival.  One that never ends?” 

“Carnivals are special, because they don’t come everyday.” He smiled at me.  

“But they could.” I nodded.

“But then they would not be special.” 

One night Theodore managed to get to the ramparts.  Since Kraigenhaven had once been a Scottish castle in the Fourteenth Century, the ramparts were left as they were.  Since electricity had been introduced a few years ago, the ramparts provided excellent access to the electrical wires and such, but the doors were kept bolted since an incurable gaining access could easily leap off into the rocks the ocean waves thundered across.  

Theodore had once been a professor at Oxford, but he began to have small mental breakdowns until he was committed as an incurable.  He spoke of scientific theory during mealtime and he put all kinds of chemical formulas on the walls of his cell.  Theory and reality in Kraigenhaven can sometimes be the same thing.  

“Oh such a beautiful night.  Grand as any I have seen.” He was in his stocking feet when he stepped out onto the wall. “Tonight by Jove, I shall fly like the gulls.”

One of the orderlies ran to stop him, but Theodore was good to his word except he did not fly like the gulls. Three days later a local fisherman managed to pull his body free of the kelp.  

Memory is a fallible thing at times, but it wasn’t long after Theodore’s fatal attempt at flight, that Bruce gained access to the tools that would end with our victory over our oppressors. The orderlies kept close eyes on the tools, but certain procedures are not always foolproof.  Bruce is a bulky man who had murdered several members of his family before being brought to the hospital as a psychopathic incurable.  His mental capacity was also very rudimentary leading one of the doctors to say he had the mental capacity of a six year old.  Given a hatchet to trim some branches off the trees around the grounds, he was able to conceal his hatchet in his sleeve.  When one of the orderlies turned his back, Bruce planted the hatched in the middle of his skull. 

Once he was able to knock the lock off the door, we were all armed with a tool.  The guards in the tower were able to shoot a few of us, but our numbers soon overwhelmed them.  In less than three hours we were in charge of Kraigenhaven and we’ve been in charge ever since.   

We opened our Carnival of the Incurables about five years ago and invited people to come see our performances.  The local authorities were the first to come, but they asked a lot of questions before our opening concerning the whereabouts of the staff.  

“One morning they did not show up.” Bruce told the constable clad in his kilt.

“So ya sayin’ they jus’ di-nit show up?” His face was red and he was surrounded by six of his men.

“Come have a look for ya-self.” Bruce held out his hand and for the next three hours his men searched the castle, but found nothing.  We knew what and where they would look, but we had taken them out off shore in some boats from the boathouse and dumped their weighted bodies.  Pieces of them washed ashore, but we were on the watch and made sure they were disposed of in the incinerator.  Ashford told us straight away that bodies dumped in the incinerator tend to put a certain odor in the air.  It would be better off in his estimation to dump the bodies in the sea where the creatures of the ocean would have something to feast on.  He was also quick to point out that some of the pieces might wash ashore, like they did, and that would be alright to put in the incinerator.

The constable and his men were nice enough to stay for our first show which I felt was a smashing success.  We had one of the incurables in shackles since he was having some struggles with his inner demons and a crew washed him off in spectacular fashion.  Spitting out water, he got a standing ovation, but there were other acts including one bloke who could speak to Hamlet and Shakespeare with a very spirited one man debate on what insanity really was and whether Hamlet was truly insane.  Most of us would agree that Hamlet was definitely off his rocker.  

Next we brought out three artists who carried their artistic creations across the stage.  There were no Vincent van Goghs in the lot, but it was interesting to see what their psychosis would render.  One of the artists was truly violent in his rendering of a man being beheaded by a rather sinister looking demon.

I would like to say that through the years our show has gotten more and more engaging and entertaining.  Yarrow was feeling very depressed just before one of our performances and told me, “I want to be the subject of a real execution.” 

“We don’t do that.” I told him as the stage manager.

“I feel it would add to the overall dramatic value of our carnival.” He sat on the edge of the stage, his elbows on his knees appearing very despondent indeed. “The voices in me head are getting too much for me to handle.  Relief will come once I can rid myself of this pestilence.”

“Let me discuss it with my staff.” I patted him on the back and called a meeting.  All were in favor, much to my surprise.  So that evening in a full house, we put Yarrow on the block.  Bruce would wield the ax.  We led Yarrow out in shackles.  I could hear the audience murmur as one of the stagehands shoved him forward so that his neck rested in the groove of the block.  With one swing of the ax by Bruce, it was done.  Yarrow had been freed of the voice that drove him mad.  Some of the audience in the front row got splattered with poor Yarrow’s blood.

“True it twas.” Bruce was all smiles backstage as he was able to do it in one blow.

“Good job.” Everyone patted him on the shoulder as he passed, 

After that a citizen’s group had formed to put an end to the carnival, but it was August 1914 and the real carnival had started in Europe that would be as horrific as anything we could put on our stage.  Still I was called in by the constable for questioning.

“Word has it that you performed an actual execution on stage.” He sat in the back of his desk, his head tilted and his one eye staring at me.

“Upon request of the man.” I nodded glancing up at the burly police chap standing over me like a vulture. 

“Are you telling me that he asked to be executed?” Both of his eyes went wide in amazement.

“You know us incurables.  We sometimes cannot take our own maladies.  It got too much for him.  Better he knew it was coming then jumping off the ramparts.” I shrugged.

“I’m not sure this carnival is such a good idea.” He sighed.

“Constable, we’ve been doing our carnival for almost four years now.  We pack the place with customers and nothing happens.  We are no longer feared or treated as if we have a demon living inside us.  People are beginning to accept us as people not incurables.” I watched his eyes and a slight nod of agreement.

“What ya say be true, but executions aren’t for ya.” He glanced at his assistant.

“What about the executions taking place in France?” I asked.

“Soldiers doing their duty.” He affirmed.

“Young men being slaughtered by the Bochy.” I held out my arms.

“My son is one them out there.  Each day I sit here waiting for a telegram like some of own mothers have gotten already here in town.” He stood up and put his hands behind his back, “This whole war is going to be a slaughter of young men on both sides. But ya still can’t be executing your own just for the entertainment of ya audience.” 

“Are ya going to close us down?” I looked him in the eye.

“I got no idea what you did with the hospital staff.  Heaven knows whatever became of them, but there are questions arising from other hospitals about how come you don’t have any staff watching over ya. If they hear about this execution, they will have half an army up here ready to shut this place down and shipping off to other places.” His reddened face matched the color of his hair when he got done speaking.

“Send ‘em.  We will be ready for them.” I shook my head.

“Don’t want no trouble. I will find a way to make that report vanish like a castle ghost. No more executions.” 

And so it was understood.  Our Carnival of the Incurables went on as did the war.  Some of our acts would question the slaughter taking place in France even though such wild talk was considered treasonous, our show was not considered politically threatening since no one in the right mind would pay heed to an incurable.  None of us would be considered to join the slaughter in the first place.  We were, for the most part, safe to continue the carnival unabated or undisturbed. In early 1916, the constable would receive a telegram.  That evening he came to our carnival so he could show me as he continued to grieve over the death of his son in some forgotten trench in France.  

It happened in November 1918 when a company of seasoned soldiers came up to Kraigenhaven to shut us down.  We did not resist.  We did not fight.  The soldiers just march in the front gate with an edict signed by the House of Parliament itself demanding we cease and desist.  One by one we boarded the train under armed guard and left without a finale.  I watched the depot through the window slide from view and Aberdeen with it.

“Heard you blokes were unsupervised for over five years.” One of the soldiers smiled as he spoke.

“Believe it.” I nodded.

“Heard ya did shows.” He glanced at me.

“Not shows, carnivals.” I corrected him.

“Shows? Carnivals?  What’s the difference?” He asked and for the three hour duration of the trip, I explained it in vivid detail.